Free The Panda Theory by Pascal Garnier Page B

of venereal diseases in medical books.
    ‘They look fine.’
    ‘Good. Look at that idiot in front. Overtaking againand again. Look, there he is, stopped at the traffic lights. It serves him right! After the hospital I’m going to call the children to tell them to be very good when their mother comes back. She’s been through a lot and it’ll take her time to get back on her feet. Or we could go and see them, if you’ve got nothing else to do, of course.
    ‘If you want.’
    ‘Here we are then. I think I’m going to take my tie off; I’m going to explode.’
    It was white as far as the eye could see. The waiting room was as sterile as an iceberg. Hidden behind the enormous bouquet of flowers, José looked like a small, solitary tree.
    ‘Right, so I’ll see you here later then?’
    ‘Yup, I’ll be here. Off you go.’
    Gabriel sat down on a plastic chair and leafed through magazines filled with smiling movie stars, politicians and television personalities. They were all tanned with white teeth and blue eyes. They weren’t allowed to be unhappy. They had been hoisted onto a pedestal, doomed to never-ending happiness. By contrast, for the ordinary mortal, unhappiness was almost a duty. Drips, Zimmer frames, wheelchairs, he could have any misfortune he wanted. Dragging himself around, shuffling in his slippers, wrapped in an oversized dressing gown, smoking a cigarette, drinking weak cups of coffee, waiting for family or ogling those of others, an ashen complexion, a vacant eye, hollow cheeks, always waiting. Waiting and living off simple platitudes like ‘good luck’, ‘keep strong’ and ‘see you later’. Obviously little people could only havelittle thoughts. They apologised for everything they did. ‘Sorry, do you mind if I take a look at that magazine?’, ‘Excuse me, which floor are you going to?’, ‘Excuse me, do you have the time?’, ‘I’m sorry for still being here, all repulsive and ill.’ Nurses laughed as they pushed trolleys stacked with lunch trays, wafting the smells of hospital food, lukewarm and flavourless. Their shoes clicked on the floor tiles. Remembering a Brassens tune about a horse dutifully pulling its cart through rain and mud, Gabriel hummed, ‘ C’était un petit cheval blanc, tous derrière, tous derrière …’
    The doors of lift B opened. José walked out. He looked like a rain-drenched panda. He passed Gabriel without registering him.
    ‘José? José?’
    José turned round. His face was empty of emotion, a mirror with nobody standing in front of it.
    ‘Are you okay?’
    ‘She’s not dead, but she’s never going to wake up. She’s sleeping. That’s it, she’s sleeping. I’m tired, Gabriel. I want to go home. I want to go to sleep as well.’
     

     
     
    The croissant didn’t taste very nice. He had only wanted one after being lured in by the artificial baking scent pumped out by the shop. The smell had reminded him of his childhood. He hadn’t really needed either a croissant or memories of his childhood. His sense of smell had fooled him. He sat on a bench and made crumbs, which he threw to the pigeons. One by one they came and belligerently tapped their beaks like mechanical tools. It wasn’t a beautiful sight, but it grew on him.
    ‘You shouldn’t feed the bastards.’
    The voice came from a man sitting at the other end of the bench. He looked curiously like a pigeon himself. Slightly fat, with googly eyes and a pointed nose, he was wrapped in a grey waterproof.
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘They shit on my window. They shit on my car. They shit on the church statues. They shit everywhere. As ifthere isn’t enough shit in the world!’
    ‘They’re birds.’
    ‘Exactly! They’ve got all the fields and woods to do it in. But no, they come and shit on us, thanks to people like you who feed them. And, besides, they aren’t birds. They’re rats. Flying rats. The souls of dead rats taking revenge on sewer workers. To them, we’re all sewer workers. In a